‘So, tell me what it means.’ She was standing again, her hand on the stone.
Don’t touch. Leave it alone.
For a moment he thought he had spoken out loud, but she didn’t move. Her hands were still tracing the deeply incised symbols, the Z rod, the crescent moon, the serpent, the mirror.
‘It’s a message to those who come after.’
‘And what does it say?’
‘It says this is a special place.’
Behind them, in the valley, the mist was creeping closer.
* * *
Liza was leaning on the orchard gate in the dusk, watching the bats swooping above the apple trees. She gave a deep sigh of contentment. From where she stood she could see the lights on in Philip’s barn. He had come in to have supper with her and the children, and then, almost before it was finished had gone out again, that particular intense preoccupied expression on his face which meant, though he might have been sitting at the table with them in the flesh, that his spirit had still been standing in front of the huge canvas of an abstract landscape on which he was working in the barn. He had slipped back there without a word, almost unnoticed, and he would be there all night, perhaps crawling into bed as it grew light, perhaps still painting when next morning she carried a cup of coffee over to the barn. He painted with an intensity which sometimes frightened her. When she had gently suggested that he slow up, that there was all the time in the world, he shook his head. ‘I can’t. I’ve wasted too much time. All those years teaching and running a department when I should have been painting. I can’t slow up, Liza, there’s too much to be done and too little time left.’
Her most recent portrait had been crated and shipped to Paris over six weeks ago now, and her studio was empty of work in progress. She pictured it as she stood in the dusk. It was swept and the paints and empty canvasses neatly stacked. She fished in the pocket of her cotton sweater for a pack of cigarettes and lit one, smelling the fragrant tobacco on the cool night air. This was the best time, when she was pregnant with a picture, waiting. She sketched all the time of course, and painted small things, watercolours, but the big formal portraits, the attempts to capture and lay bare a man or a woman’s soul, that was something which needed to be thought about and developed, sometimes over months. She was fortunate. She could pick and choose amongst the people who wanted her to paint them. She could read up about them and talk to them and then when she was ready begin on her preliminary sketches.
A slight breeze had risen from nowhere, whispering amongst the apple trees, stirring the seeding grasses. It was almost dark, but her eyes could pick out the silhouettes of the low hills on the far side of the valley where the occasional bright light moving across the landscape showed a car following the winding road alongside the Wye or turning up into the network of narrow lanes which threaded the dark countryside.
She shuddered suddenly and throwing down her cigarette ground it into the earth with her heel. The children had gone for a walk after supper, strolling up across the fields behind the house. She turned, her back against the mossy gate, and tried to see into the darkness of the slope behind the house, listening for their voices. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted.
Dreamily she began to walk back towards the house but halfway there she stopped. She would go into her studio and look round. It was almost there, the urge to start painting. In some part of her mind she had already selected the woman whom Juliette would describe as her victim; she was an elderly French poet, a woman of enormous learning and wisdom with a craggy, lived-in face which displayed a quite staggering beauty and the most piercing lovely eyes of anyone Liza had seen for a very long time. She turned and walked with sudden determination towards the studio and put her hand to the door. To her surprise it was open. She hesitated. Had she left it like that? She doubted it. Usually she locked it, but now while there was no painting in progress perhaps she had let her usual concentration slip. Or perhaps Philip had come over to borrow something – he often did, lifting without shame her most expensive pigments or a precious sketch book as the fury with which he worked consumed him.
She pushed open the door and looked into the cavernous darkness. Parts of the barn roof had been removed and replaced by glass to give her the north-facing light she needed. Even in the dark there was a luminosity about the interior of the building. She stared round as her hand reached for the light switches and it was then she heard a stifled giggle. She froze, every sense alert. For a moment there was silence, then she heard a murmur coming from the far corner where her old sofa, covered by a brilliantly-coloured kelim, stood back against the wall. Suddenly knowing what she was going to find she smacked her hand down the bank of light switches, throwing the barn into brilliant light.
Calum and Juliette were lying together naked on the sofa. Beside them on the floor was a half-full bottle of white wine. Next to it, another, empty and on its side, showed that their consumption in the relatively short time since supper had been rapid. For a moment neither of them moved, then they leaped from the sofa. Juliette grabbed at the kelim, holding it in front of her, her face set in a defiant scowl whilst Calum after a frantic search had grabbed his jeans, and with his back to Liza dragged them on and hauled up the zip. When he turned round his face was scarlet. ‘Aunt Liza, I can explain.’
‘I don’t think anything needs explaining, thank you, Calum.’
Her first blinding fury that they had somehow desecrated her work place was being replaced in quick succession by anguish that the children had shown so plainly that they were no longer children, sympathy with their embarrassment which said more eloquently than any words that they were, terror at what Philip would say, horror at the thought of having to explain to Adam and Jane and a terrible urge to laugh at their pathetic, frightened-rabbit expressions.
‘You won’t tell Father?’ Calum’s plea as he reached for his shirt broke into her racing thoughts. ‘Please. He’d kill me.’
She shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t do that, Calum.’ She took a deep breath and reached for her cigarettes again. ‘I think you’d better give me some of that wine while I think how I should react.’ Her brain was racing.
I’ve been young.
Damn it, I made love on this same sofa to his father!
Yes, but they are only children.
Supposing she gets pregnant.
We’d cope.
We always do.
‘Mum.’ Juliette had somehow managed with complete dignity to slip on her panties and the huge man’s shirt she had taken to wearing. She poured her mother a glass of wine and then one for herself. Apart from her bright eyes and the slight flush on her cheeks, which Liza suspected came from her interlude with Calum rather than too much wine, she appeared quite calm. ‘I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have used your studio.’ She had focused unerringly on the most – and the least – important thing. ‘Don’t worry about us. We were careful. And besides, we are going to get married.’ She smiled beatifically. ‘You mustn’t tell Daddy, or Calum’s parents, because they wouldn’t understand. But you do, don’t you?’
Artfully managed, Liza thought. As she sipped her wine she found her mind was a cheerful blank. ‘I’ll have to decide what to do,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll have to think.’
Juliette’s face broke into a brilliant smile. Her mother always said that when she was about to cave in, but needed to save face. She dropped a kiss on Liza’s head. ‘You’re a darling. I knew you’d understand. Aunt Jane is such a fuddy-duddy she would probably have kittens.’ She caught Calum’s hand and pulled him close. ‘Uncle Adam would understand, I know it. You and he were lovers, weren’t you?’ Her eyes sparkled even more.
‘Julie, that’s an outrageous suggestion.’ Liza wondered if she was blushing. She was suddenly wishing she hadn’t turned on all the lights, they threw such a pitiless, hard illumination on the scene.
‘Calum and I always thought you were. We used to discuss it, didn’t we, Cal? We thought it meant we were nearly bro
ther and sister and that was nice when we were children. But it would be incestuous now, wouldn’t it!’ She poured herself some more wine. She was drinking it too fast. ‘So we are lovers instead! It’s perfect. It brings everything full circle, especially if Cal goes to Edinburgh to read medicine like Uncle Adam.’
A sudden draught found its way through the open door and Liza felt her skin icing over. ‘Julie – ’
‘No, Mum, don’t be stuffy. It’s all perfect.’ The girl took another gulp from the glass and twirled round in a little dance, her long slender legs barely concealed by the dangling shirt-tails.
There were no shadows in the barn now. Every corner, every huge oak beam in the roof was clearly visible. Liza glanced round. Was it the mention of Adam that had done it? Or the scent of lust and wine and the warm summer night…
Suddenly Meryn’s voice was echoing in her ears. It’s you she will go for, Liza. She has targeted you and she is still there, in the dark. I’m afraid that she thinks you took him away from her, and I don’t think she is the kind of woman who will forgive. Keep yourself protected. Never let her catch you unawares. However many years have passed, however much water has gone under the bridge, never turn your back on the shadows. One day she will find you again.
‘Let’s go to the house.’ Liza put down the glass. ‘Get dressed, Julie, before your father sees you. Quickly. I want to shut the barn up. Look at all the moths coming in.’
Don’t let them see you’re afraid. Don’t let her see you’re afraid. Remember the circle of protection, and throw it round these children that you love so much. She wouldn’t harm them, surely – not Adam’s son – but protect them all the same.
She could feel the eyes watching them now, even pinpoint where they were coming from. She spun round towards the door and stared, expecting to see the dark hair, the wild grey eyes, the hand with the wicked gleam of a blade. There was no one there. Outside the owl was hooting again and the night was still. It was as they were trooping outside and she had turned to switch off the lights and pull the door closed that she momentarily felt the cold whisper of silky fur against her bare leg.
11
Thomas Craig died six months after Adam and Jane’s visit to Pittenross. Independent and strong to the last, overseeing his flock and taking services until only days before the end, he had died, sitting grimly alone in the back of his own kirk, to be found by a complete stranger who had entered the building, guide book in hand, in search of the medieval painting which hung on the wall near the door. His body had been cold.
Adam, Jane and Calum travelled north for the sad business of arranging the funeral and deciding what to do with his belongings. The church had already decided to sell the manse: too large, too old, too expensive to run.
Standing looking down at his father’s grave in the kirkyard he had known all his life, on the day before they travelled back down to England, Adam felt enormous sadness and regret. It had all been such a waste. There had been so much unhappiness. So much striving. So much bitter anger in his father’s life. And for what? Had he found the peace and the reward he had so unforgivingly sought? Was there an afterlife out there, waiting with recompense or retribution, or would his father’s restless, furious spirit continue to stride around the village and the house he had called home? He felt himself shudder at the thought.
Jane reached for Adam’s hand. ‘Are you all right?’
He shrugged. ‘It makes it all look rather pointless, doesn’t it? What a life.’
‘He did what he thought was right. That’s all any of us can do.’
‘And died a very lonely man.’
‘He had his God, Adam.’
A cruel God with no forgiveness or kindness in him. The unspoken thought hovered between them for a moment, then Adam shrugged and turned his back on the grave. ‘Come on. Let’s go down to the hotel and have a drink.’ He shivered. ‘Thank heaven I need never come back to this miserable place!’
If he gave a thought to his own childhood memories or to Brid, there was no sign of it.
Once back in St Albans they settled down again to the usual routine. But things had changed. Adam was more remote, more intolerant, and alone at night in their bedroom Jane found him often far too tired to make love. His patience with Calum too had grown thin, so when his son announced to his astonished parents his intention of marrying Juliette there was an immediate and violent reaction.
‘I have never heard such nonsense in my whole life!’ Adam stared at his son in complete disbelief. ‘No! I don’t care what you say, you are not going to marry her!’ His face was white. ‘For heaven’s sake, boy, you are about to take your exams! You are still at school! You can’t think about marriage for ten years yet! Tell him, Jane!’ He turned on his wife who was standing by his study window, her back to them, staring out into the wintry garden.
‘I told you, Dad, we’ll wait until next summer. We will both have left school by then.’
‘Then you go to university.’
Calum took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to take a year out, Dad, do some travelling, see something of the world. That’s the point. Julie feels the same. We’ve been at school forever. We don’t need any more work for a bit. Liza doesn’t mind.’
‘Aunt Liza, to you young man.’ The response was automatic.
‘She’s not my aunt,’ Calum retorted. ‘And she hates being called it. She says it makes her feel old. I call them Liza and Phil. And if you weren’t so antediluvian you’d let Julie call you by your name. It’s crazy to insist on Aunty and Uncle as though you were old fossils and we were six!’ The colour in his cheeks was flaming. ‘Anyway, I don’t know why we’re talking about this. It’s not for ages. Don’t worry about the stupid exams. I’m not going to fail them.’
He stormed out of the room slamming the door behind him, and Jane and Adam were left listening to racing feet on the stairs and then the crash of his bedroom door.
Adam ran his hand across his brow distractedly. ‘Where have we gone wrong?’
Jane bit back the rueful smile which was trying to escape. ‘We haven’t gone wrong, Adam.’ She walked over and put her arm round his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry. He won’t let anything get in the way of his exams. It’s nerves. The whole thing is an elaborate cover so we won’t see how much he’s worrying. Don’t rise to it, Adam. We’ve known about Julie and him for ages. They were bound to fall in love. They’re sensible kids; they won’t do anything silly.’
‘He does want to go to medical school?’ Adam had shrunk away from her touch.
‘Of course he does.’ She straightened, trying not to mind his rejection and dropped a light quick kiss on the top of his head. His hair, as wild and curly as ever, showed no signs of thinning but there were wiry grey hairs showing now amongst the brown. She walked back to the window with a shiver. ‘I wish there was some sign of spring. I’ve seen the snowdrops, but this wind is endless.’ As she spoke a fresh gust hurled itself against the window and rattled it in its frame. ‘There’s a cat out there. Poor thing. It must be frozen.’
‘A cat?’ Adam sat up and spun round in his chair. ‘Where?’
She gave a rueful smile. ‘No, not your vicious friend. It’s black. Look.’ She turned towards him and frowned. ‘Adam, what is it?’ She could see as he played with the fountain pen that his hands were shaking.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Don’t be silly. It must be something. Is it Calum? Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t let him upset you like this!’
Adam closed his eyes. Your vicious friend, she had said. If she only knew. He bit his lip, desperately trying to steady himself as he thought back to the last time he had seen the cat, when Jane had gone to stay with her mother in Godalming a few weeks ago.
He had been at home in the morning, writing up his notes, and at lunchtime he had stood up at last, stretched and walked out into the garden to take some deep breaths of fresh air to clear his head. Right on cue, as if it had known he was alone, the cat had jumped dow
n from a low, snow-covered branch of the apple tree and run to him, purring. He had picked it up and brought it in, giving it a saucer of milk under the table in the kitchen. But it had ignored the milk and running to the door had shot through it and up the stairs, straight to the bedroom.
‘Puss?’ He had stood in the kitchen for a moment or two, half of him already knowing where it had gone. Then slowly he had followed it into the hall and stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. ‘Puss?’ His voice sounded querulous, even to him, in the empty house. ‘Puss, where are you?’ Silence. He had stayed where he was at the bottom of the stairs, his hand on the flat, white-painted newel post staring up. Half of him had already known that this was the moment of truth. He could not face the reality of what was happening – he did not even understand it. All he knew then was that if he went up he would re-enter the strange world of his dreams and he would be lost. He could remember looking down at his watch: ten past one. He had a surgery at three-thirty.
Walking slowly up the stairs he had felt a strange, sick excitement beginning to build in his stomach. Almost without realising it, he reached for his tie and begun to loosen it. On the landing he stood for a moment, listening, then he had walked over the thick grey carpet towards the door of the bedroom which he and Jane had shared for so many years. It had been standing wide, to let the pale winter sunshine from the window play across the landing. He walked slowly in and closed the door behind him.
She had been sitting on his bed. Behind her the amulet tree lay on the carpet in a dozen pieces.
‘You little witch.’ He said it without rancour as, almost automaton-like, he’d begun to get undressed. As he had slid down inside the bed, feeling the sheets cold against his hot naked skin, he had closed his eyes and waited for her to slip down under the sheets next to him. He hadn’t opened his eyes again until much later. When he had sat up at last and groped for his shirt, the light had already begun to fade from the sky. The room had been empty.
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